Ah! From past few months I am desperately struck with my ideas within my brain. Whensoever I try to jolt down the running thoughts, they never agree to stop and walk with me. With my fingers. And with the keypad of a laptop. With this, the aftermath moment goes in vain, becomes much emptier than anything else in this planet, sometimes even in this whole universe, even in a large vacuum that had simultaneously grown in your enigmatic eyes when I looked you for the last time for the rest of my life; but happily I reckon and put it in my empty pocket at a time when leisure has also its leisure. At other time the same voidness kills me again and again. Over and over. Mocking at my weakness and my shortness it takes me somewhere else that there are only naked, and brutally bitten, and slapped faces by the time-largely, by the culture, by the religion, by the history, by the war, by the society, by the politics, by the crippled psychology, by the so-called leaders, by the money, by the American dreams, by the desire (both evil and good), by their own people, and by their own god. I know those faces don’t know or never bother to know that there is their own god besides all these worthless drama, the drama that has spread as tropical diseases in every corner of streets and avenues of Manhattan, and it continues to cover all the oceans and all the continents. I have also a rigid logic in my heart that this disease-unknown and unnamed disease- may crosses this planet and may holds this whole universe. Even the black hole is not an exception! I think this disease might have germinated from The Statute of Liberty-I really don’t like the idea we had given: The-Statute-of-Liberty, where the fuck liberty is, and how much liberty we have enjoyed, chewed, and vomited out; by the way I am remembering Rossaue. Because here in America everywhere I often see and often encounter to those slapped faces. Every subway station, every park, every alley, every mall, every skyscraper, every bridge, every boulevard, every museum, every moving advertisement of Times Square, every step of millions of people, every showroom of diamond street ( i.e.,47th street, 6th avenue or I say Jews’ street), every door of financial district, every art on the buildings of downtown, Manhattan, every ferry to Staten Island; from Harlem to Brooklyn bride, from Queens Boulevard to Broadway, from JFK to Hudson river, from UN building to China town, from Wall Street to Mimi’s employment agency; everywhere, everywhere in fact, there are fingerprints of our civilizations and lies that illustrate our failed image as human beings. When I think of this I vividly remember one beautiful evening in Brooklyn Bridge, from where I saw two old cities of the planet standing side by side, yet never tangled with each other’s fame and popularity. As I reached at the bridge at first I looked at the east-side where Brooklyn was growing shy with the red blush painted by the setting sun in the far horizon. The lines of the car coming and going from Brooklyn to Manhattan in the semi-dark reddish evening reminded me of those people whose fates are still not drawn, who are due in their mothers’ wombs, and who had already died. And at the west-side of the Brooklyn Bridge Manhattan was in its sexiest posture, as if she was letting me to fuck as much as I can, as many time as I want, to forget every pain that I endured and accepted without even raising any question to life. The top of each skyscraper was groaning; groaning as the Moon Light Sonata of Beethoven. Then I turned to the north-side of the Brooklyn Bridge. There is a Manhattan Bridge. These two bridges paved their path parallel to each other. After looking every corner from the Brooklyn Bridge, nostalgically I remembered Bhupi Sherchan, Devkota, Rimal, Amber Gurung, Shankar Lammichane, Bhim Darshan Rokka, Gopal Yonjon, Narayan Gopal, Parijat, I remembered them in that evening in the Brooklyn Bridge when I was thousands of miles far away from my land, because all those were human being at first then after artists, singers, poets, but we never let them to be human being. We always put them in the category of non-human and worship and just worship. And our worship made them die in poverty…Ahhh!

Ahhh!!! And other thing I thought was that Manhattan direly needs Half-Closed Eyes. I put it straight forward Manhattan needs the Swayambhu Mandir, where Whitman, Henry Miller, James Joyce, T.S Eliot, Basu, Issa, Yosino Yakiko, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Four Seasons Vivaldi, Karl Shapiro can write and play the poems and songs on INHUMANE.